Bosworth Fields

by | Oct 21, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

Where once red wine poured down their blade
They form a cross where history played.
These cold bloodied creatures flashed
Minds and bodies torn and slashed
Sharpened tips screamed out in pain
Wailing over corpses slain.
Where once red wine poured down their blade
They form a cross where history played.

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